


A Duet

by Foegerfeax



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-03 19:07:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12754377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foegerfeax/pseuds/Foegerfeax
Summary: Daeron of Doriath is present at the Kinslaying of Doriath, and he meets another musician before the end.





	A Duet

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this ages ago.

"Sindarin dirt," Caranthir grunted, dragging the limp body by one arm across the stone carven side-hall of Menegroth. "He's heavier than he looks, too."

 

Celegorm grimaced in agreement, heaving the unconscious body of Daeron of Doriath onto his shoulder. At the edge of the room the brothers hefted the bleeding form and tied him against the wall by his wrists, and with a vicious kick to the stomach Daeron stirred and awoke, groaning from the pain of many cuts and bruises.

 

Celegorm slapped him backhand so that his whole head turned and blood streaked from his broken lip. "Wake up, Daeron," he said warningly.

 

The singer groaned softly and his dark eyes fluttered open. Caranthir slipped a thin blade from its scabbard.

 

"See, this is what happens to crows who compare themselves to the mighty Maglor, nightingale of the Noldor," he purred, tracing Daeron's white throat with the edge of the knife. The musician shied away, letting out a sharp coo of terror, twisting to avoid the cold blade.

 

Caranthir let out a burst of shrill laughter, maniacal, obscenely loud. "Look, Tyelkormo! The glorious Daeron of Doriath is scared," he mocked. "He knows who's in charge, and he doesn't like it."

 

Celegorm leaned against the wall, lazily wiping the blood from his own sword onto a richly woven tapestry. "Hurry up, Carnistir. We haven't found the silmaril yet."

 

"I know. Just give us a minute." He turned back to Daeron. "I'm going to make this upstart hurt before I kill him," he said, grinning. The light in his eyes was almost feverish.

 

He paused for a moment. Then, "Let's see how well you sing with your throat cut, scum," he said, violent smile twisting his lips. Celegorm laughed.

 

Daeron's cry of agony was cut short as Caranthir pulled the knife across his throat in one broad stroke and blood blossomed from the wound, spilling down his front in a fountain of gore. Eyes wide, Daeron tried to breathe, availing nothing but a guttural sucking sound and so much pain that he sagged in his bonds.

 

"Sing now," Caranthir taunted. He looked over his shoulder at Celegorm, now absently shredding the tapestry with his sword. "He's not long for this world, Tyelkormo. What should we do next? Put out his eyes?"

 

Daeron moaned softly, head bowed.

 

"Do as you wish," Celegorm said, stretching languidly and settling against the door frame more comfortably, arms crossed. Caranthir advanced, twirling his bloody knife jauntily between three fingers. "You should have just admitted you were second best. Then maybe I would have let you keep your pretty eyes." He grabbed Daeron's jaw roughly and forced his face upwards, smeared the remaining blood on the blade onto one cheek.

 

Then he raised his knife.

 

"Stop!"

 

Maglor burst into the room, bloody blade unsheathed and hair wild. "What are you doing, Carnistir? Who is that?"

 

"Daeron of Doriath, brother," Celegorm said. "We're teaching him a little lesson."

 

"What are you doing to him?" Maglor asked, horrified.

 

Smirking, Caranthir swaggered over to Maglor's side. He flung one arm carelessly over his brother's shoulders, splattering him with blood. Maglor winced.

 

"You see, Kana, this upstart called himself the best singer in all of Endor. And I don't let Sindarin rats besmirch my brothers like that. _Ever_."

 

"So Carnistir slit his beautiful throat," Celegorm said with satisfaction, a cruel gleam in his pale eyes.

 

Maglor's mouth fell open in shock and disgust. He threw Caranthir's arm off his shoulder and pushed him away. "You shame yourselves," he whispered. "We kill because we must, but the Oath does not force us to torture innocents! You-"

 

"'Innocents'?" Celegorm interrupted derisively. "He was a combatant, Makalaurë. We _had_ to kill him, or he'd have slain _us_."

 

Caranthir burst into shrill laughter.

 

Maglor shook his head in disbelief. "I don't care. Get out of here."

 

" _Excuse_ me?" Caranthir said dangerously, the cruel mirth of seconds before gone.

 

"Curufin's lot are still trying to take the west passage," Maglor said. "Go help them."

 

Neither of the brothers moved.

 

"Now!"

 

With deliberate and surly slowness, Celegorm finished wiping off his blade and sheathed it. "What are you going to do, 'mighty singer'?" he scoffed. "Sing him to sleep?" He snorted and walked out, followed by Caranthir.

 

The moment his brothers were gone, Maglor rushed to Daeron's side and untied the bonds from his wrists, whereupon he collapsed to the ground. Maglor knelt and cradled the other musician's head in his arms.

 

He could see Daeron's mouth moving, broken throat struggling to form words as his wild eyes fluttered. His voice was little more than a rasping whisper. "B-better than you..."

 

"I know," Maglor said at last, laughing sadly. "Everyone does. I am Maglor the mighty singer, 'second only to Daeron of Doriath'. Don't worry; everyone knows your skill is the greater."

 

He sighed, pushing the gore-matted hair out of Daeron's face.

 

"I hope you can forgive me for what I'm about to do," Maglor said. "I shall try not to hurt your ears."

 

And then he sang.

 

It was a simple lullaby, one that all the Noldor knew; Maglor himself could remember his mother singing it gently as she rocked him upon her breast, in Tirion so long ago. It was a plain melody, but sorrowful; full of the peace of returning home and the ache of sweet regret.

 

Maglor's voice rose and fell, clear as a bell in the stone hall. Sad and hopeful, bittersweet as the last leaves that fall in the autumn. The music rang throughout the columns of stone, pure and clean in its nostalgic innocence and quiet in the mourning of indescribable terrors triumphed against only through unspeakable loss. Daeron closed his eyes and sucked shallow breaths through bloody lips.

 

When the song finally ended, Maglor did not want to let go, and the last note lingered in the air for an age.

 

But time moved on.

 

Daeron's eyes opened slightly, eyelashes fluttering. "Your voice... is v-very sweet."

 

Maglor closed his eyes, fighting tears. "Thank you."

 

"Would... that w-we had... sung a d-duet... before the end, my b-brother," he gasped, blood trickling down between cracked lips. Maglor gently wiped it away with his sleeve.

 

"We shall sing together in Mandos, brother, ere too long has passed," he said softly. He gripped the singer's hand tightly.

 

Daeron nodded stiffly, and more blood seeped from the gaping wound in his neck. He took one last gurgling breath, and then the trembling of his cold hand went still, and he passed. Closing his eyes tightly against tears, Maglor brushed the other musician's brow with his lips.

 

Heavy footsteps approached, and someone entered the room.

 

"Maglor!"

 

Maedhros' voice was unusually rough, harsh from emotion; it grated on Maglor's ears, unmusical and sharp. "Thank Eru you're alright. I thought..." He noticed the dead body of Daeron, still supported by his brother's lap, and started. "What are you doing, brother?"

 

"This is Daeron of Doriath. He has passed now; Tyelkormo and Carnistir slit his throat," Maglor said bitterly. "I sang him to his rest."

 

Maedhros laughed sharply, short, but tinged with lunacy as his brothers. "Eru, Makalaurë." He gasped for air as though drowning. "He's just a Sinda. Tyelkormo and Carnistir and Atarinkë had no such luxury."

 

Maglor froze. "What do you mean?"

 

"They got through to the throne room. Dior’s men killed them. They are gone." He let his naked blade, smeared with blood and chunks of flesh, clatter to the floor.

 

"And Ambarussa?" Maglor asked fearfully.

 

"I don't know," Maedhros said, and his eyes were haunted by greedy flame and deep shadow.

 

Maglor leapt up, letting Daeron's head fall to the floor with a dull thud. "I will look for them."

 

"Not yet," Maedhros murmured, sliding down the wall exhaustedly to sit on the floor. His face was waxen, splattered with blood, and his hair was matted. Eyes closed, his mouth gasped for breath greedily, as if he could never get enough air to survive. The gore-smeared fingers of his left hand sought out the hilt of his sword, and he clutched at it as if for comfort.

 

"Eru, Makalaurë, times like this I wish I could sing."

 

Maglor stepped over the body of Daeron of Doriath and looked at his older brother.

 

"No, you don't, Maitimo," he said. Then he left.


End file.
